Category: Poetry

The Devil’s bind

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The consequence we are not to understand

until it is much too late

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oh how we made the devil’s bind

oh how we planted devil’s vines

tightened round our throat

those chains which break in dues of pain

or drag us through eternity forever

(the day you plant the seed is not

the day you eat the fruit

as the vine had long to grow

before it reached your throat)

believe me

my mercy is not self-sacrificial

I am the woman who lets men fall to their fate


(you are not owed grace

if in your ignorance and haze

you reached unto others to disgrace)


I dwell in every woman who guards herself

with a hundred knives in each hand


I am the feral blade which strikes

from the stifling darkness impenetrable


I am the vine which chokes you

until you pay the pain that’s due.

The best we can hope for is utter collapse


which frees us for a second chance.

Tracing a psychic process

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She looks at life and the trees

as the end meets the beginning and times of beyond

touch the limits of now


where fragments gather not forming a whole

in the behind of the shadows

to weigh it all down

and coat themselves in dust forever.

She looks at life and the trees

before they burst

where the roots are alive but not more;

the unseen binding death to life

in the very last moment which is empty like never before.

She looks at life and the trees

as she collects herself

– those pieces left between spaces and time


picking each one to rest in her palm

blowing the dust off before letting it fall


The Great Preparation

for God-knows-What

where each little piece must be looked at

and held.

the Empty, two

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What is the reason to Live beyond living?

to Love, and what else?

brought forth in

holding another

in the space which is one’s own

– quiet, or empty

as only the empty may fill

with what springs from those thousand streams that I followed

until I found You

alone in our silence

as your eyes alone, lifted

what’s empty in me

so it may wrap us up both

as we fill it

up to the brim

and beyond


with those things life could never contain

but for a moment

which ends in eternity

with the thousand springs which feed this void

– joined Oneness.

For A.

passions contained

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take your passions elsewhere 

from streams leading inward 

not out 

as out of the sky-dreams 

do drip 

as fickle as rays passing clouds 

and rainbows that shift 

freedom, the road 

made solid and safe 

(material,

to carry each step)

so heavy

(not rain) 

to soak up what’s left


those passion-illusions in squander,

contained

the Flower

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There truth lies in its kernel

breaking

to reach out

and ’round

holding a centre which lives in the chest.

That centre there raises a Flower

filled to the brim for those who surrender

as in from the back

something stirs in the stream

at last!

the waters flood in

to the widest tide

rich to the Flower which knows

of the Love held in surrender.

S.

Believe(in)

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This here rain drip

cleans the wounds of hearts so tender

damage-shattered

by words of illusion


– the one tender hearts are prone to believe.

Come back, then

pieces bleeding at the seams

to be replaced

and / or forgotten.

Sweet,

surrender then

to the wounds tender hearts yearn to believe in

the rain drip-dripping in vessels which carry

truthful devotion

the one tender hearts ought to believe in.

Linger where happiness lays

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Heaven

sits by the side of a pool in the mountain

covered in Sun and sleeping the mind in facts of the body

lit

as passion or want sinks in the skins of those resurrected

out of sleep fruitless

of waking to blessing

thought not to touch

now felt

surfaced

over

(self)

doubt

and the depths in which it drowns.

Down to the darkness we go

to surface again resurrected

as desire may rise and with it

ascension

choosing to linger where happiness lays.

Heart

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Pass through, as ease to some it seems

and loss-release of lives lived hardly

in search instead of softness.


Forth from softness only love may spring

grounding tender darling dreams

where scars guard wounds from rupturing themselves


gushing inward, streams of being

stitching marks unhurt

and born of boundlessness and trust.